Sammy Started It
by chrissie0707
Summary: prank!fic. gift!fic. Dean, the Impala, and a shaken Mountain Dew.


a/n This is a belated gift!fic for the awesomely awesome kimonkey7, to celebrate her one-year ficcing anniversary. You rock, girl, and I wouldn't be in this place, in more ways than one, without you.

Prank!fic. I had some random prompts given to me, and I completely ripped them apart. But there IS Dean. And half-drunk Sammy. And a shaken bottle of Mountain Dew. Enjoy.

* * *

**Sammy Started It**

Sammy started it.

From a booth in the back of Nick's, a little sidestreet bar on the outskirts of Detroit with two-dollar pitchers and dollar you-call-its on Wednesday, Sammy started it.

Of course, Dean didn't find out that it had been started until about one o'clock in the morning, when he finally grew bored of watching a tipsy Sam watch nineties sitcom reruns and decided to give Jenny, the bartender, a call. You know, to see what time she got off. _Ah_-_hem_.

Stretched out on his bed, arms hugging a pillow, Sam snickered a little as Dean reached for his cell.

"What?"

Eyes glued to the television like he was president of the _Dharma and Greg_ fan club, Sam shook his head, eyes wide and lips pulled down. "Nothin'. S'a funny show." Then he let out an honest-to-God giggle.

"You are one strange human being, you know that, Sam?" Slightly amused by semi-drunken Sam, Dean flipped open his phone, digging the crumbled napkin out of his back pocket.

And then he was a little less amused, because there on the screen's wallpaper was the fat ass crack of the trucker that had been bent over the pool table next to their booth in the bar.

Dean jerked his head back, wincing, and held the phone out at arm's length. "Oh, that's just wrong."

Sam rolled to his side, hugging himself with both arms and laughing that high-pitched little cackle that had annoyed Dean since Sam had developed it when he was thirteen. "Oh, I got you," he gasped, his laughing accented by the laugh track on the show.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You got me?"

"I got you."

Dean shook his head and sighed. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy." Dean held up the phone and inspected the picture with a quirked eyebrow and curled lip. "This is not getting me."

Sam waved a dismissive hand and turned his attention back to the TV. "Whatever, man. I saw your face."

Studio recorded laughter filled the room as the two sat silently.

After a moment, Dean grinned. "You know it's on, right?"

Sam barked a laugh. "Bring it."

"Dude."

"Yeah, okay."

Dean looked back down at the cell's screen. He must have defiled Dean's phone when he was getting that number. "Did you at least buy this guy a drink before you started taking half-naked pictures of him, Sammy?"

* * *

Dean chose his moments carefully. He was more often than not impulsive, and at times downright irrational, yes; but when it came to getting back at Sammy? That took careful planning. Weighing of options. Maps, schematics, blueprints. Escape plans. Not that he was scared of his little brother or anything… 

Wolf Creek Lodge (though there were no wolves nor creeks within a fifty mile radius), in the middle of the night, and Dean lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to Sam's "I do _not_ snore" sounds of sleep coming from the next bed. The room was dark; soft glows coming from different areas of the motel room. Faint blue from the nightlight in the bathroom, a white wash of moonlight peeking through the blinds, and bright red from the bedside table alarm clock, to which Dean turned his attention.

Three-seventeen in the am. They'd turned in barely an hour earlier. It was just enough time for Sam to be pretty well asleep. Or pretty well passed out. _Perfect_.

Dean sucked in a breath and bolted upright, straight as a board. "What was that?"

Sam sucked in a snort of air and shot up as well, arm wrapped around his middle, tangled in blankets. "Wazzit?"

Dean bit his lip to keep from laughing at Sam's hair and rapid blinking. "Think I heard something outside, man."

"S'a cat." Sam flopped back down, snores coming immediately.

Dean hadn't pulled this one in years. Not since they were still kids, left in motel rooms for days at time while Dad was out hunting, drinking, or some combination of both. Sam _should_ have been too old to fall for something so juvenile, but that's why you gotta wait until they're good and asleep. People are all kinds of crazy when they're woken from a deep sleep. Especially when they'd had all of a beer and a half earlier that night.

"Sam." Dean rolled out of bed and slapped a hand on Sam's leg. "Really, man, get up."

As Sam sat up again, rubbing his eyes, Dean made a show of going to the duffle next to the door. He crouched and unzipped the bag, grabbing a handgun. The cock of the hammer certainly got Sam out of bed. He was crouching on the floor next to him in no time, eyes more or less alert.

"What did you hear?"

"Not sure." Dean grabbed another gun and handed it over to Sam with a meaningful look. "But it sure as hell wasn't a cat." He rose slowly.

Sam mimicked the action and they flanked the motel room door, Dean on the inside. He turned the lock, grabbed the handle, and gave Sam a small nod. Sam nodded back and pulled back the hammer on his own gun, holding it at the ready as he took his position.

Dean pulled the door open and Sam stepped quickly out of the room, no shoes, no pants, no nothin'. And instead of following him out, Dean just waited. He stood in the doorway, hand on the frame, and watched as Sam, armed with his serious face and an unloaded gun (not that he knew it), scanned the parking lot, peering around the sides of the Impala.

After a moment, he lowered the gun and turned back to the room, noticing that Dean hadn't followed him outside. "Dean, I don't-"

And Dean slammed the door in his face.

"Who got who now, Sammy?" Dean hit the deadbolt and leaned his back against the door, very much pleased with himself.

There was a smack as Sam's palm hit the door. "Dean, open the door."

"What was that? Sam, I can't hear you, the door's closed."

"Open the door, asshole. It's freezing out here."

Dean pulled open the curtains, and Sam pounced like a cat, was at the window immediately. He appeared fully awake now, and fully pissed, arms wrapped around himself, shifting his weight in his tee shirt and boxers.

Dean mock-shivered, rubbing his arms. He spoke loudly, so Sam could hear him through the glass. "You know, you're right. Think I'm gonna turn the thermostat up a little bit."

Sam's eyebrows merged into one, and he took a step forward, trying to appear threatening with chattering teeth. "Dean."

Dean kept a straight face and gripped the edge of the heavy drape. "Better shut these curtains. There's a draft coming in."

"Dean."

"'Night, Sam." He pulled the curtain closed.

Sam had moved back to the door and pounded on it. "I have a gun."

Dean laughed and hit the door once with his fist. "Just remember, Sammy. You started it."

* * *

Sammy started it…and Sammy finished it. 

He wasn't exactly a pleasant person come morningtime, since he had spent the night outside in forty degree drizzle.

He had spent a decent amount of time pounding on the door, trying to annoy Dean into letting him back into the room. And then it had started raining, a deep, cold rain, and Sam had walked down the row of rooms to the office, borrowed a paperclip, and picked the lock. That was all well and good, but it didn't really do anything to help with the deadbolt.

So he picked the lock on the Impala instead, and spent the night stretched out on the bench seat.

Now he was tired-looking, pouty, and silent, slouching in the passenger seat. They were halfway through Indiana, on their way to Louisville, when he squinted at the sign up ahead, focusing on upcoming gas stations. "Dean, pull off here. I gotta piss."

Since those were the first words that Sam had spoken to him all day, Dean silently complied and took the next exit, turning left at the light and pulling up in front of a Marathon.

Sam pushed his door open and stepped out. Dean called him back with a quick stab at the horn. "Get me a Mountain Dew."

Sam responded with raised eyebrows.

"What?"

"Do I look like an ATM?"

Dean sighed and leaned forward, pulling out his wallet. He handed Sam a couple of dollar bills that had been through the ringer and Sam shoved them in his jacket pocket, moving towards the automatic doors.

When he returned, he was holding a bottle in each hand. He leaned in through the open window and handed Dean his soda. Then he stepped back and gave a very obviously exaggerated stretch.

Dean looked down at the bottle in his hand, suspicious. He shook his head, grinning and knowing Sam way too much.

He summoned Sam back to the open passenger door with a whistle. When Sam popped his innocent floppy little head into the car, Dean held up the bottle of Mountain Dew. "Shaking my pop's a little sixth grade, Sammy, don't ya think?"

Sam stepped back and slapped his palm on the roof of the car. He put his hands on his hips and sighed.

"Aw, Sam. Don't pout." Dean stuck his own bottom lip out and cocked his head. "Just believe that there's still a chance in hell that you'll catch me off guard."

Sam rolled his eyes and wrenched open the door. He flopped onto the seat and looked out the window.

Dean wiggled his fingers at his little brother. More specifically, at the Dew in his hand. "Gimme yours."

Sam looked over with a frown. "What? No way."

"Yes way. We're trading right now."

Sam sighed and handed over his unshaken bottle of Dew to have it swapped for the shaken one. "I'm gonna get you back for last night."

"Sure you will."

Sam moved to open his bottle and Dean whacked him on the arm. "Don't even think about it." Dean rolled his eyes, moving to open the twist top of his own bottle. "I can't believe you were gonna let me open that in the car."

The words barely out if his mouth, he twisted the plastic cap of the bottle. With a snap and _pfft_ of air, radioactive-green Mountain Dew-y foam volcanoed up and out from the crack between cap and bottle and lavaed down the sides, drenching Dean's fingers and the cuffs of his jackets, dripping onto his jeans, and most importantly, _spraying all over the goddamned DASHBOARD._

"SAM!" It was nothing less that a roar.

But Sammy was gone.

* * *

There is a possibility for continuation. We'll see. 


End file.
